Joker’s log. Stardate, July 11th of the year 2006 in the galactic nebula, sector crap, alpha season, also known as the work place. Signs of life are quickly deteriorating as the idioticus nimroid (nimrod / Hemorrhoid ) known as Jobba The Fuck consistently shovels job phaser shots in the direction of the creative department. Sprock and Data Copy have succumbed to the attacks of the intergalactic sloth. I, Lieutenant Joker, have been holding ground in the fruity crap trenches of the Cohmpu Ni System. Losses are mounting and I truly don’t think we’re going to make it.
Blogging powers are at an all time low, free time to feather ones pubic hairs has been obliterated and decent meals have been replaced by MRTV’s (Meals Ready To Vomit). Jobba has made advances and claimed the lives of most of my crew members, now leaving me to fend off the gigantic dick leech that persistently belches paper works from paper mates, inflicting paper cuts and paper scrapes in a very, very paper way. Contact with the world of Job-job has been all but lost and we need help. Jobba the Fuck is on hiser’s way. We still do not even know the gender of said abomination, but its wrath knows no limits. And I… I feel light… light as a feather… and I’m floating… high, high, high into the air as I look beneath me. The troops, my fallen comrades, the paper shrapnel strewn throughout the whole landscape and the advancing lard bucket that could only be Jobba the Fuck. We are in dire straits. Help us Obi-Soppy-Copy, you’re our only hope.
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